On the big day, when we launched Flutterby, I didn’t pour all the champagne over the bow. There was some left in the bottle, so a bunch of us went down the dock to where a little wooden shoebox, about six feet long, sat waiting. Kris and Barry picked it up and dangled it down to the water by its painter, letting it down with a  splash. Way, way down there in the water below the high dock, it looked for all the world like an abandoned piece of furniture. Somebody tossed a couple of wooden oars into the shoebox-bookshelf, and then they all turned to me, expectantly.

Uh-oh.

There it floated, nine years in the making, waiting for the builder to test it. I felt like the ancient Roman bridge designer who had to stand under his bridge when the first load went across. What if I was too heavy? What if it flipped, or worse yet, slowly sank? I could hear the blub-blub-blub in my imagination. But it’s amazing what adrenaline and an audience can do. White-knuckled, I climbed down the ladder into the tiny vessel that I had given birth to from a pile of plywood.

I was still hanging onto the ladder with a death grip when Barry handed me the bottle of champagne.

It felt like a toy boat, something that should be christened with Kool-Aid. But I wanted the gods of the sea to take this thing seriously, so I poured champagne over the “bow.” (Since the boat doesn’t have a pointy end, it’s a little hard to tell which is the front and which is the back. It would probably row just fine sideways, if I mounted the oars that way.)

“I christen thee Flutterwent!” The name was Kris’ idea. It rolls off the tongue better than Flagondry or Rockcoach, two bug-based Spoonerisms that sound a lot worse than Flutterby.

Before I knew it, Barry was climbing off the dock to join me in the boat, I think because I had the bottle of champagne. Or maybe because he wanted to swamp it and go swimming. Surely this thing was not rated for two adults, was it? Thank goodness the Coast Guard wasn’t around to see the open container in an overloaded vessel with no lifejackets.

But she didn’t ship any water when he climbed in. We sat there, facing each other, grinning, and passing the champagne bottle back and forth. Meanwhile, the current was carrying us away from the dock. Whoops! Time to do something about that!

Using ridiculous 7-foot oars as giant paddles, we paddled through the marina and over to the ways, where Flutterby awaited us. The scariest part was getting back out again! I didn’t know how stable it was, but I knew how stable I was — not very. I guess the adrenaline got me out of the boat as well as into it, although by now most of our audience had lost interest and wandered off for happy hour. I was already plenty happy.

You might be wondering, why would anyone use such a strange-looking, tiny dinghy? Normal cruisers go back and forth from their boats in stock gray inflatables with stock outboard motors. Why not the Flutterbies?

For years, Barry wanted to build a 34-foot sailboat with me. This terrified me, because I was afraid of power tools. I’d had an accident in college with a bandsaw and nearly ended up eight-fingered Meps.

In 2001, our housemate, Sharonne, signed up for a beginning woodworking class. For the first four weeks, the students built toolboxes using a table saw, joiner, planer, biscuit-cutter, and sander. For the remainder of the class, they worked on their own projects. At the end of ten weeks, Sharonne proudly brought home the toolbox and a tall bookshelf that she had built with her own hands.

I signed up for the next session and built the same toolbox. Then the teacher sat down with the class and told us we were free to start on our own projects. He went around the room and asked each person to say what they wanted to build. “A CD rack,” said one. “Toys for my grandchildren,” said another.

When he reached me, I said, “A boat.”

“A toy boat?” asked the teacher.

“No, a real one.”

The rest of the class stared at me.

“This is Woodworking One. You can’t build a boat on Woodworking One,” said the teacher, with a smirk.

“Don’t you remember Sharonne, from last term? She built a bookshelf. I promise my boat will be just like a bookshelf.” He rolled his eyes and made me stay after class to convince me that I couldn’t build a boat.

The following week, I showed him the plans. Phil Bolger’s Tortoise dinghy looks a lot like a floating bookshelf, so he reluctantly permitted me to start. A couple of months later, Barry and I loaded my plywood dinghy on top of Peepcar and brought it home. I’d done the final assembly in Woodworking Two, with a more encouraging instructor.

The good news was, I still had all my fingers. (So did the instructor from Woodworking One, who’d nearly run his hand through the table saw helping me cut the framing.) The bad news was, it wasn’t a boat yet.

It was a thing of beauty, constructed of luan plywood with pine framing and copper ring nails. For the first year, it sat on our back porch. For the next five, it hung in my in-laws’ garage.

I was proud of my accomplishment, so I told people that I’d built a boat. But whenever Barry heard me say that, he’d correct me. “No, you didn’t. It’s not finished.”

In 2008, I painted it with epoxy resin to protect the wood, and we tied it on top of the Squid Wagon. We drove from Seattle to Flutterby in Beaufort, North Carolina, via San Diego, with that tiny, funny-looking boat on top of the van.

It looked like an ant on top of an elephant. All the way across the USA, we got reactions like the guy with the toothpick in his mouth who sauntered over to Barry, not noticing me nearby. “What is that?” he asked. “Some kind of storage pod?” “No,” said Barry, “It’s a boat.” The guy looked more closely and said, “Oh.”

Then Barry added, “My wife built it.” The guy cracked up laughing. He thought it was the punchline to a really funny joke.

The epoxy wasn’t UV-resistant, and by the time we crossed the country, it already needed sanding and painting. We didn’t have anywhere to store it out of the weather, so we rented a 5×7 storage unit and stuffed it inside, using it to store other items — just like a bookshelf!

For another two and a half years, when I said, “I built a boat,” Barry said, “No, you haven’t.” I’d glare at him. Couldn’t he just shut up?

That was getting really irritating, so last summer, I took the poor neglected dinghy out and put it under Flutterby. It was time to finish it, a job only I could do. If I let Barry help me, then, when I said “I built a boat,” he’d still have an excuse to correct me. “No, you didn’t. We built a boat.”

My sawhorses sat on some turf with boatbuilding history. Between 1983 and 1995, Bock Marine built and launched over 30 boats in that spot, including the 122-foot White Dove Too. Like the WDT, my dinghy was brought from another location and completed on that hallowed ground. But there are some differences. Their ships were steel, launched using a dramatic side-launching technique (this is a hilarious photo of people running from the splash) instead of our painter-dangling end-launching technique. I calculated the ratio of length-to-time-under-construction: At 6.5 feet and 9 years, Flutterwent’s ratio was 505. Knocking out a couple of 85-footers a year, Bock’s was 2.1.

I finished the dinghy in the heat of the summer, using all the woodworking, epoxy, fiberglass, and painting skills I learned on Flutterby. While I was working, I wore headphones and hearing protection. Not because of the power tools, but because I was tired of all the men in the boatyard wandering over to stare. I was tired of explaining that I was not building a hard dodger to cover the companionway.

When I was done, I said to Barry, “I built a boat.” Then he hugged me instead of correcting me.

It still wasn’t completely done, having no means of propulsion. But it’s past midnight, and I am done for tonight! Tiny boat, big story. I’ll put the photo essay below and save the rest for another time.

Paparazzi: It’s not something I ever expected to experience. I’m no celebrity, let alone a beautiful one.

Flutterby, though, is a beautiful lady. So on the afternoon of Tuesday, November 30th, when we finally launched her, there was a veritable army of friends and photographers on the dock.

We woke up before first light that morning, knowing it was going to be a Big Day. First, there was a lot of work to do, like sorting docklines and fenders (and dealing with the icky nest of giant cockroaches in the box with them), completing the steering installation, and emptying and cleaning the fuel tank (also icky, but the ick didn’t move as fast as the giant cockroaches).

Suddenly, it was time to launch — and to be celebrities. For from 2:04 pm, when the Travelift roared to life and headed in our direction, to 3:05 pm, Flutterby was the subject of more photos on more cameras than I’ve ever faced at once. There were over 100 photos taken of and by us in 61 minutes.

Unfortunately, I had not dressed for a Big Day. I was wearing my usual unflattering boatyard clothes, which I hated with a passion. I planned to throw them in the dumpster before leaving the boatyard. Now I wish I’d done so before launching, as they are immortalized in all the photos. (A few days later, I gleefully tossed the pants, shirt, and shoes into the dumpster, keeping only the socks and underwear. Kris’ pants were disposed of in a more interesting fashion. More on that later.)

The entire experience was a blur. Was it hot, cold, or windy? Did it rain? Dale and Richard are wearing foulies in the photos, but I don’t remember weather hampering our efforts. Who was behind all those cameras on the dock? Did I eat anything that day? From the photographic evidence, I suspect we ate tortillas, carrots, pork rinds, and chocolate. (Not at the same time — I’d remember THAT.) I do remember the champagne. It was definitely not consumed at the same time as the pork rinds.

When the excitement was over, we floated serenely in the ways, leaving an empty space where our boat — and our hearts — had been for years.

Photos are below (on the web)…but not all of them.

Flutterby is still happily hurrying down South for the winter.  Today we made it out of Georgia, and I only touched bottom once.  I even managed to keep plowing the bottom until I was back on course, no damage done.

Now that the narrow twisting waters of the Georgia ICW are passed, we are ready to feel at home in warm sunny Florida.  But it took a hint from us wanting to feel at home.  Err.  Oops.  We ARE from the Pacific Northwest.  So this is how sunny Florida welcomed us!

“I will not whistle on the boat.”
“I will not whistle on the boat.”
“I will not whistle on the boat.”
…to be written in the logbook 100 times.

We sailors are a superstitious lot. To appease Neptune, we pour perfectly good alcohol overboard each time we have a drink in the cockpit. We perform complicated de-naming ceremonies to make sure he isn’t confused when we rename a boat. We seek a virgin to pee in the bilge when it’s time to christen a boat, and hope that the child we select doesn’t get the wrong idea about peeing all over our boat the rest of the time. We fret about whether to break a bottle of champagne over our precious bows or just pour it instead. And whether the cheap stuff we drink is good enough for the sea gods, or if we should buy something nicer than usual.

So when Kris caught me whistling on board, he raised his eyebrows. I stopped. It’s called “whistling up the wind,” and it’s another one of those superstitions.

Evidently, I did not stop soon enough. In the Edisto River yesterday, between Charleston and Beaufort, South Carolina, I saw 33 knots of wind on the wind instrument. Today, the temperature has not been above 36 F. There’s icy slush on the deck.

I am sorry. I am very, very sorry. I promise I won’t whistle any more.

But that’s not my only bad habit. Our first day on the water was just as cold as today. While I was at the helm, I put Shakira on the stereo — hot salsa music. Standing in front of the new cockpit speakers, I was dancing back and forth behind the wheel, stamping my feet and doing belly dance shimmies to stay warm. Suddenly, there was a sharp “crack!” The teak grate beneath my feet, beautiful original equipment, had developed a severe crack.

The guys came out and looked at it, shaking their heads. They effected some temporary repairs, and Barry marked them with a Sharpie: “No Dancing Zone.”

“I will not dance on the boat.”
“I will not dance on the boat.”
“I will not dance on the boat.”
…to be written in the logbook 100 times.

I doubt my behavior has brought the wrath of Aeolus upon us, but I can’t be sure. I will try to behave with proper decorum here in Beaufort, South Carolina. I fear that if I don’t, my mother will turn over in her grave — yet another superstition! And since her final resting place is about a half mile from the marina, near the house where they filmed “The Big Chill,” I’m not going to take a chance.

Just to be on the safe side, I’ll ask for an official blessing from Saint Mom. She never got to see me at the helm of an ocean-going sailboat, but I know she’s watching out for me, somewhere. Along with Aeolus and Neptune and Yemenja, and the whole pantheon who take care of belly-dancing, accordion-playing whistlers on sailboats.

What’s that infernal beeping? It’s the alarm going off. Looking up at the hatch overhead, I see nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s pitch-black.

Where am I?

Barry is nestled beside me, but I can barely make him out. His head and face are hidden inside a fleece hood, and only the top of it peeks out of the sleeping bag.

I struggle out of the heap of bedclothes, remembering that the reason the hatch is black is because the dinghy is upside-down on top of it. Sitting up, I peer out the porlight.

After two and a half years in one place, this simple act of looking out the window is exciting.

I am on Flutterby. That’s a good thing. Flutterby is on the water. That’s a good thing. But where am I?

A few minutes later, after I’ve added more layers of clothing, I slide back the companionway hatch and do a 360-degree scan of the horizon.

The first thing I see is my own breath. It’s a frigid, 25-degree morning. Before me, I see a large, protected anchorage with a half dozen boats, their anchor lights glowing in the pre-dawn. On shore, there are many lights and illuminated signs, and a huge hotel. There’s a low fixed bridge, with taillights and headlights zooming across on the way to work. It’s six AM.

I know this place. This is Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina.

The first time we anchored here, it was aboard Cayenne. That was the first time we ever got a wi-fi signal on an anchored boat — in 2004. I remember Barry huddling in the forward part of the v-berth with the laptop, because that was the only place where the signal came in.

A few years later, we passed through on Flutterby. That was three years ago — literally, to the day. It was just as cold, maybe colder. We took the cover off the engine and huddled over it for warmth. On another occasion, we stopped here in the van, in the summer, to see a friend. We ended up dinghying out to Katja for dinner.

As I reminisce, the horizon beyond the hotels is turning orange against the indigo sky. It’s time for hot coffee and yet more layers of clothing.

Barry pulls up the anchor, and motoring slowly, I take us out of the anchorage. I cast a last glance over my shoulder at the sun, which is just peeping over the horizon. The windows on the sides of the hotel have turned to molten gold.

Channel markers point the way to another day’s adventures. I have no idea where I will awaken tomorrow.

When people sail around the world, one of the biggest milestones is when the path they trace leaving their home port is crossed again on the way back. I don’t know if we are going to sail all the way around the world or not, but we are ready to be sailing on now. I’ve know people to circumnavigate in anywhere from three years to seventeen years.

Tonight we just crossed the track of our three-year boatyard circumnavigation.

Here are some entries in Flutterby’s log:

Dec 6, 2007 1220 Anchored at Wrightsville Beach, NC
Dec 7, 2007 0630 Departed anchorage at Wrightsville Beach, NC
Dec 7, 2010 1630 Anchored at Wrightsville Beach, NC

So exactly three years ago we were heading North from here only two days away from Beaufort and an approaching haulout. Today we were coming back this direction after departing two days ago. Sometime today we were exactly to the minute in the same part of the ICW we had been three years ago.

What has four letters, starts with a vowel, and has lots of corn and cows? Ohio. Iowa. Sometimes, it’s hard to keep them straight, even when you’ve lived in one of them.

About fifteen miles into Iowa, a gigantic sign caught my eye. “World’s Largest Truck Stop.” There was a traffic jam associated with the world’s largest truck stop — the off-ramp was backed up with cars and semis. Traffic jams are unheard of in a place where cows outnumber people.

At 65 mph, I had only an instant to decide. I switched off the cruise control and joined the traffic jam.

The off-ramp was perched high above the truck stop, and we could see down into vast acres of trucks, cars, pedestrians, and — huh? Circus tents? What was going on at the world’s largest truck stop?

It felt surreal to follow signs for overflow parking without knowing why. The Squid Wagon was directed to a field, about a half mile from the center of the activity. Just after we’d locked up and grabbed cameras and sun hats, an ancient yellow school bus came by and picked us up. Someone handed us a program, which said, “Welcome to the 31st Annual Walcott Truckers Jamboree.” Bouncing the whole way, the school bus delivered us to the entrance of what the program said was “The Best Trucker Party in the Country! FUN! for all.”

Now, Barry and I are always looking at big trucks and asking each other, “What do you suppose that thing is for?” “Why is he doing that?” “What do you think is in there?” Since neither of us has ever been inside a semi, we spend a lot of time arguing about the possible answers, without any real facts on which to base our positions. We call it “talking out of our butts.”

Finally, we could get some answers. Just the previous day, we’d debated this one: Why pay to be weighed at a truck stop, when weigh stations do it for free? The first exhibitor at the show, a representative of CAT Scales, answered that one — truckers want to make sure the weight of their load is legal before they drive into a weigh station, where they will be fined if it’s not. Also, some loads, such as household goods, are charged by weight.

We wandered the big tent, where exhibitors were touting everything from dip mixes to air filters and 12-volt mattress warmers. One driver had self-published a novel, but without an audio version, he wasn’t getting much interest from his fellow drivers. Trucking companies were handing out freebies to anyone with a CDL, hoping to recruit drivers. The American Lung Association and the Iowa Soybean Association, unrelated organizations with different interests, were both pushing biodiesel. I stopped to look at literature for Women in Trucking, and two women pounced on me as a potential member. Later, when I read their newsletter, I realized I should have asked about their Women in Trucking tattoos.

We left the exhibits and started strolling through the rows of trucks, taking pictures of shiny chrome and elaborate airbrushed graphics. What was the story on these trucks? Were they for sale, or just for show? Who had brought them?

The acres of blacktop gave off waves of heat, and the only shade came from the trucks themselves. We came upon a small group in folding chairs, chatting animatedly in the shade between two trucks.

When questioned, they explained that they were owner-operators who came every year. I asked about their trucks, and one couple pointed to the one on the left, and other pointed to the one on the right. “Are you staying in your trucks?” I asked. “We’re staying in the hotel,” answered one of the women. “But they’re staying here. She has a real bathroom in hers, with a shower,” she said, enviously. The sleeper on the truck with the bathroom was about three times larger than other sleepers, and had larger windows. It looked like a very sturdy RV.

I was getting a glimpse of another world. Barry and I had learned a little bit about the RV crowd, mostly retired people who drive around the country and pay handsomely for the fuel to do so. Now we were meeting folks with smaller accommodations, but bigger rigs. They’re proud of the fact that they get paid to do their traveling.

I began to understand the event — an excuse for truckers to relax and spend time with people who understand their way of life. What we had stumbled upon was something like the Seven Seas Cruising Association Gam for offshore sailors, or the Sturgis, South Dakota, motorcycle rally. I even felt elements of our favorite annual event, Burning Man.

Like Burning Man, there was art: One man’s purple truck was airbrushed with shining white horses charging out of blue surf. The multi-talented owner-operator had painted it himself. Not only that, but he’d built the interior of the sleeper himself, the only one we saw that included a fireplace. We climbed up into the cab, with hundreds of shiny buttons and switches, to see the sculpture on the back wall of the sleeper, a continuation of the horses in surf theme.

The same man told us we absolutely had to stay for the nighttime party. He described the illuminated trucks in the Lights at Night Competition, and said people would be walking around and admiring each others’ trucks all night. There would be a fireworks show and a concert by big-name country musician Tracy Lawrence. I had to take his word that Tracy Lawrence is famous, having never heard of him, myself.

I seriously considered his recommendation to stay. I felt very welcome, and we could easily have hung out all day and through the night, partying with the big truck people (while listening to music we don’t like). But in the end, we decided to push on across Iowa and save our free time for places that were greener and cooler (and have better music).

We drove about 20 miles up the road and stopped at a rest area, where I struck up a conversation with the man who was cleaning the restrooms. He was a very overweight man, one of the largest I’ve ever seen, and admitted that he’d hardly been away from home. I sensed that working in a rest area made him restless, wishing to see more of the world. When I said that we’d just come from the big truck jamboree, his face lit up. “I’m going to that tomorrow,” he told me.

Then I started telling him what I’d heard about the nighttime party, the fireworks and the music and the illuminated trucks, and he got more and more excited. “I get off at nine,” he said, “so I’ll just go over there tonight!” I was glad that I’d given him a little excitement to look forward to. I was also glad that there would be one more person at the Jamboree to appreciate all the work that went into the decorated trucks.

Barry and I continued west on I-80, passing a few trucks and being passed by others. Each time, I thought of the person driving it, rather than just the vehicle. Were they aware of the party they were missing? Maybe they don’t like country music, either.

In the future, driving on the freeway, I’ll look up — because no matter how high the Squid Wagon is, trucks are always many feet higher — and feel a connection to the driver. And if he looks my way, I’ll give him a friendly wave. We might meet again someday, at the Walcott Truckers Jamboree. Next time, I’ll stay for the concert.

In the small town park, there was a band shell and a statue. The latter towered formidably over our heads. It was a bronze casting of a couple holding a child and staring off into the distance. The inscription read, “To the pioneers who bridged the streams, subdued the soil, and founded a state.”

My eyes followed their gaze, and met terrible destruction.

On a whim, we’d hopped off Interstate 74, in Western Illinois, to follow a small brown highway sign that said, “Lorado Taft works of art.” The 16-mile detour would take us through nothing but cornfields. I worried that we might not even like the art.

Barry pointed out that we had postcards and a parcel to mail. Even if we hated Taft’s art, we could use Elmwood’s post office.

We drove for about 15 minutes, and just as we reached the edge of Elmwood, we came to a sign in the middle of the road: “Road Closed.” If we followed the detour, we’d miss the art altogether.

We sat at the crossroads, puzzled. “They can’t close the whole town!” I said to Barry, indignantly. A car came along and swung around the sign, ignoring the roadblock. We followed. A block down, there was a sign on the right, pointing towards the Taft Memorial. “Let’s find the post office first,” said Barry, who was driving.

A few blocks later, it became apparent that Main Street, which intersected our road, was full of construction equipment and jersey barriers. Barry turned right and paralleled it, two blocks away, but every time we came to a cross-street, there was a jersey barrier. He was so busy trying to figure out how to make a left turn, he didn’t see the clue on the other corner.

It was the remnants of a telephone pole, tilted at 45 degrees and splintered ten feet in the air. The pieces fell into place: Tornado.

And then Barry found a place to turn, and we crossed Main Street. The tornado had ripped and splintered its way precisely through the heart of the little town. For about four blocks, Main Street was rubble, construction equipment, yellow tape, and jersey barriers.

Somewhat stunned, we got out of the van and walked over to the town park. I was incredibly curious, but embarrassed. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to gawk at your misfortune. It was a coincidence.”

A cluster of older folks stood on the sidewalk, watching the demolition workers. I walked over to ask where the post office was, but just then, I saw it. It was in one of the damaged buildings, closed until further notice.

A woman pointed out the white and blue truck on the other side of the park. “That’s our post office, for now.” That’s when I saw the pioneer statue by Lorado Taft, honoring the fact that those who settled Elmwood had endured difficult times. I shook my head at the irony.

With our camera, Barry and I walked around the perimeter of the destruction, capturing images of the sudden power of nature. Two teenagers trotted past, carrying large crowbars. In another situation, that would be alarming. Here, it was charming. A man watching from his bicycle was enveloped by dust as a second-story wall came down. He pedaled to another spot and continued watching.

Eventually, we joined the group in front of the bank that had grown to about 20 people. One man had a home video camera on a tripod, and just about everyone had a little digital camera. “When are the kids coming for a visit?” one silver-haired woman asked another. “Next month, to celebrate the birthdays,” was the answer. “I can’t wait to show them these pictures. How’s your mother?”

We learned that the tornado had hit a month earlier, during the town’s annual Strawberry Festival. There had been ample warning, so everyone went home and no people were hurt.

I’m sure the early aftermath was traumatic — live powerlines and broken water mains and precarious walls of brick teetering above Main Street. That’s over now. The crews we watched were tearing down unstable structures and getting ready for rebuilding.

No one we talked to seemed sad or distressed; all the people chatting on the street corners were pretty cheerful. There was a buzz of excitement and lots of interaction. Hometown Hardware, located on the corner, had lost most of its second floor, but their signs were intact. There were several jokes about the large white one that said, proudly, “Help is on this corner.”

In a few months’ time, the Lorado Taft sculpture of the pioneers will look out over a new landscape. The buildings will be different, and the town will have new history. The stalwart descendants of these pioneers have figured out how to deal with the forces of nature and move on. Their ancestors, the pioneers, would be proud.

We’ve tried longer visits, shorter visits, and more frequent visits, but we can’t escape this fact: Columbus, Ohio is a midwestern black hole that sucks us in every time we cross the country.

It’s not the city or the shopping (blech!) or the restaurants. For me and Barry, Columbus, Ohio, has more beloved people per capita than any other place on the planet. The magnetic pull starts with a special brother, a fantastic sister and brother-in-law, and two precious nephews.

Add a bunch of friends who are as dear as any blood relative. We haven’t lived there since 1990 — yet we continue to meet amazing people, both in and out of Columbus, who call that place their home. We’ve known some Columbus friends for almost 30 years, and others for one year.

So each time we leave, there are a few hours or days of letdown.

This time, we headed west on US40, the National Road. There wasn’t much to see. Corn. Corn. A sign for the Krazy Glue Factory. Corn. Corn.

I tried to remind myself that each corn plant is a new and different being that came from a seed and didn’t exist the previous year. How would you like it if people said, “Human. I’ve seen those before. You’re no different. I’m not interested.”

Unfortunately, I can’t discriminate between this corn and the corn I saw in 1981, or 1993, or any other year I drove or bicycled on US40.

The heat and humidity were oppressive, and our air conditioning was broken. The last time we had it recharged was because the lack of air-conditioning in Yuma, Arizona made us terminally irritable, and $400 was cheap compared to homicide. We’re a lot more tolerant (and cheap) these days, so we decided to live without it.

In Springfield, Ohio, we discovered that MacDonald’s was running a special on ice cream cones. This was too good to pass up — air-conditioning, people-watching, and two ice cream cones for only $1.

Barry came back from the restroom and found me playing with both his napkin and mine. “Sorry. I hope you don’t need this,” I said, handing back his very-crumpled napkin.

There was a game imprinted on the table, a circle divided into pie-shaped pieces with instructions on each one. You were supposed to spin a straw in the middle and do the activity it landed on. Since ice cream cones don’t come with a straw, I just picked my favorite. “Make a hand puppet out of your napkin,” it said.

After leaving MacDonald’s, Barry took the wheel for a while. He decided to drive on the interstate instead of the two-lanes, and guided the Squid Wagon back onto I-70.

At first I regretted his decision. What would we see along the four-lane highways? Corn. MacDonald’s. Corn. Corn. Corn. Boring.

If you’ve ever read anything I’ve written before, you’re laughing at me. I am, too. You see, I spend a lot of time worrying and fretting and writing about my fear of being bored. Yet the truth is, it never happens. I am never, ever, ever bored!

Why? It’s not just each corn plant that is different and unique: It’s each moment.

Enjoy the next moment.

Let me know how that goes. Boring? I doubt it.

At 8 am in Paxton, Nebraska, we stopped to mail some postcards and ask a couple of locals for directions. “Have you ever heard of a place around here with a bowling alley and a soda fountain? They’re famous for their tin roof sundaes.”

“Nope, nothing like that around here.”

It was a little early to be eating decadent ice cream treats, anyway, so we weren’t too disappointed. We later realized we were still 100 miles east of the place, which is in Potter, Nebraska.

But the two local fellows didn’t want to disappoint us. “You ever been in there?” one asked, pointing to the bar on the corner. “That’s a real tourist attraction — people come from all over the country to see it.”

We said no, politely looking up at the sign. Ole’s Big Game Bar and Grill had tinted windows, so there was no telling what was inside that he thought might be of interest to us “tourists.”

“They’re not open for business, but there’s somebody in there,” he said.

We walked over and tried one of the doors. It was locked. But there was another door, this one unlocked, and the fellows were watching to see us go inside. It was a normal-looking restaurant, and a woman was inside, vacuuming. “Some guys out there said we should come in and look…” I said, sheepishly.

She pointed to the next room. “Go ahead,” she said, resuming her vacuuming.

In the next room, my jaw dropped. “Holy cow!” I exclaimed.

“That’s the only thing you won’t find here,” said Barry.

The first thing that caught my eye was the elephant’s head. It hung to my left, just over the piano. “How the heck do you hang up an elephant’s head?” I asked.

To my right, in the corner, was a giraffe’s head. It started near the floor and went all the way to the ceiling, with the tail, but no legs. It wasn’t a huge place, but every square inch of the upper wall was covered in all manner of things with horns and fur — moose, deer, elk, and African critters I’ve never even heard of. A giant bison head, almost as big as the elephant, led the way to the bathrooms. Tusks taller than I stood on either side of the fireplace, and there was a stuffed cheetah and an iguana above them. Over the bar, an enormous snake coiled below a leopard’s paw.

The most amazing thing in Ole’s was the polar bear — not just his head, but the whole bear, in a glass display case almost as big as my boat. The seal captured under his paw seemed smaller than the giant paw itself.

I walked around the room, staring dazedly at all the stuffed animals overhead. Despite Barry’s correction, I couldn’t stop muttering, “Holy cow, holy cow.”

The funny thing was, we were just going to mail a couple of postcards, so we didn’t have the camera with us. You’ll just have to believe me. Holy cow.